


Dirt Lot

by DeansDirtyLittleSecret



Series: Supernatural Drabbles [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 22:05:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyLittleSecret/pseuds/DeansDirtyLittleSecret
Summary: Song Prompt: Hotel California by The EaglesKeys:Something misplacedA secretTime’s running out (either it actually is, or your character[s] simply feel that way)Challenge: Setting is outdoors.





	Dirt Lot

**Author's Note:**

> Song Prompt: Hotel California by The Eagles
> 
> Keys:  
>  Something misplaced  
>  A secret  
>  Time’s running out (either it actually is, or your character[s] simply feel that way)
> 
> Challenge: Setting is outdoors.

The hotel was old - rusted doorframes, cracked sidewalks with weeds growing from them, mold in the showers, threadbare blankets on the beds and beyond faded drapes and furnishings. It’s only redeeming quality was the attractive woman manning the counter, the one who drove the old Benz, so old it was nearly falling apart. Thankfully, I didn’t think I’d have to be there long, just until he called or they caught up with me, whichever happened first. **  
**

I didn’t spend much time inside, preferring to sit in the dirt lot at the bottom of a small hill, reclining on the hood of the car, absorbing the heat from the black metal, staring into the forest beyond the hotel, wondering when they would come for me. I knew it wouldn’t be long, time was my enemy. Sooner or later they would find me, it was inevitable. I had to hope that I heard from him first.

The rattle of rocks being kicked down the slope of the hill startled me, startled me enough that my hand went to the butt of the gun beneath my shirt as I turned. It was her, the woman behind the counter.

I’d seen her everyday since I’d arrived. The first day or two, she’d stood just outside the office door, watching me. The third day she’d made it as far as the edge of the lot, the fourth day she’d stopped just behind the car, her hand resting on the hot metal of the trunk, just watching me. Yesterday, the fifth day, she’d leaned against the hood right next to me, not speaking, just silently standing beside me.

I followed her with my eyes as she moved down the length of the car, finally boosting herself up to sit beside me, her leg touching mine. She held out a brown bottle with a red label, condensation dripping down the sides, foam peaking at the top. I took it from her, nodding her direction without really looking at her. I wasn’t there to make friends, shit, I wasn’t even there to hook up. I was there to lay low.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“What are you running from?” she asked after a few minutes.

“Who says I’m running from anything?” I said, swallowing the beer with a grimace. It was cheap, cheaper than what me and…I pushed that thought down, deep, where it wouldn’t hurt. I cleared my throat and tried not to think about him.

“Everybody’s running from something,” she smiled. “Or hiding from something. Either way we’re all prisoners of our own devices.”

“Eagles,” I muttered. “Hotel California.”

“Busted,” she chuckled.

I shrugged, refusing to meet her eyes. “Maybe I’m looking for something.”

“Or someone?” she asked.

I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back the tears. She reached out and rested her hand on mine, her hand damp and cold from the bottle of beer. She squeezed my fingers and rested her head on my shoulder. She smelled like strawberries.


End file.
